


Trust is for the Weak

by blackreaperrr



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: I have no idea what I'm doing, I'm Sorry Dick Grayson, Implied Sexual Content, Jason todd is the MVP, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Procedures, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slade Wilson Being an Asshole, Sort Of, Temporary Amnesia, Torture, no beta we die like illiterate fools, none of that ric grayson bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24071983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackreaperrr/pseuds/blackreaperrr
Summary: Dick and Slade have a good thing going. Casual sex, the occasional date night and helping each other on missions. Which is why it hurts so much worse when it all slips away.(AKA: Slade Wilson is a manipulative asshole and Jason Todd deserves Brother of the Year award)
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 237





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm a longtime lurker and a first time poster so please be nice!! Hope you enjoy and don't be afraid to leave a Kudos and constructive criticism :)

The first time Dick had ever met Deathstroke he had beat the shit out of him. He had been young and reckless, still running around in Batman’s shadow as Robin and completely unprepared to face the powerhouse that was Slade Wilson in a fight alone. Before disappearing into the night, Slade had told him that he had promise, and that it was a shame he was Batman’s sidekick and not his. Bruce had benched him for a while after that, even though the broken arm and concussion Slade had left him with would have prevented him from patrolling anyway. 

They encountered each other a few times after that, mostly minor passings-by and the occasional fight here and there, until their relationship developed into something a bit more playful. Dick knew Slade went easy on him when he was still Robin, and as he aged, he began to look forward to meeting with Slade, as a sort of test to see how much better he had gotten over the years. Slade seemed to have a slight bit of fondness towards him and was always telling him what he could improve for the next time. Bruce had never been happy about the meetings, primarily because it usually ended with Dick getting his ass beat and nursing broken bones and black eyes for the next few weeks, but he never put a stop to them once he realized Slade posed no real threat to him, despite the injuries he usually came away with. 

Once Dick broke away from Batman and took up the name Nightwing and moved to Bludhaven, he started to see a bit more of Slade. He was able to go against him almost evenly in a fight now, and Slade seemed to enjoy the fights they got into. Occasionally Slade would accompany him on a mission, help him beat up some bad guys here and there, and they developed a sort of friendship. Of course, there were rules, they didn’t interfere with each other’s work unless it was asked for and kept their personal lives very separate from their relationship, but it was…nice. 

The first time Dick kissed Slade was about four years into his Nightwing gig. They were sitting on the edge of a high rise in Bludhaven, eating shitty burgers and discussing a drug ring Slade had just helped Dick bust. Slade had been sitting there, outlined by the busy night lights of Bludhaven, his quiet, rumbling voice comforting Dick and he had just… leaned in and kissed him. The older man had been surprised at first but had quickly melted under Dick’s mouth and deepened the kiss. They sat there on the roof for a few hours after that, taking quiet comfort in each other’s presence. 

After that, their relationship grew to be something a little more than friends. Never anything serious, but they had the occasional makeout sesh and booty call every now and then. Dick enjoyed Slade’s company immensely, and he felt that Slade reciprocated his feelings as well. 

Which is why it hurt so much worse when it all went to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this chapter is ridiculously short but it's just to lay the groundwork! Promise they'll get longer as I go :)


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of his window opening to his Bludhaven apartment instantly had Dick on high alert, grabbing his escrima sticks from where they lay on his coffee table and settling into a loose fighting stance. As soon as he saw the figure climbing in through the window though, he relaxed, running a hand through his hair.

“Jesus, Slade, next time give a guy a bit of warning when you break into his apartment.”

Slade looked at him from where he was standing in front of the window. “I bring a peace offering,” he said, holding up the plastic bags of takeout and wine before placing them on the kitchen counter and turning back around to close the window.

Dick moved to the counter to open up the bags and begin unloading the food, grabbing some utensils and glasses for them, watching as Slade took off his Deathstroke mask and armor before settling on a stool and opening a container of fried rice.

“So, what’s the special occasion that you’re gracing me with your presence?” Dick asked, following suit and pouring himself a glass of wine before turning and grabbing another spoon from a drawer for the sauce of the sweet and sour chicken he was digging into.

“What, am I not allowed to swing by for a visit without needing something?” Slade replied.

Dick levelled him with a look.

“Ok fine,” Slade said, a smile spreading across his face. “I have a job coming up that I could use your help on.”

Dick was surprised. Slade rarely asked him for help, mostly because he knew that Dick didn’t really agree with his methods, but also because he was the best, and was quick and efficient with his jobs that left little need for a helping hand.

Dick must have let his surprise show on his face, because Slade quietly chuckled and began to elaborate.

“It’s a fairly simple job, just break into an office building and get dirt on a competitor of my client’s, but they have some pretty heavy security and so I need a diversion.”

Dick raised an eyebrow.

Slade sighed. “And because I’m asking you to help, I promise not to kill anyone.”

Dick nodded, satisfied. “I accept. What do you want me to do?” He said, finishing off his glass of wine and pouring himself another.

He sat in silence for the next few minutes, slowly sipping on his glass and eating the Chinese as Slade began to outline his plan. It was all very mundane, which was perhaps why Dick was having a hard time focusing on his words as he neared the finishing touches of the plan. By the time Dick finished his second glass of wine, he knew something was wrong. His head was spinning, and Slade’s voice sounded like it was coming from a mile away.

He pushed to his feet, oblivious to the sound his stool made when it hit the ground. He stumbled slightly, and grabbed on to the counter for support so he wouldn’t fall.

“-ou alright, little bird?” Slade’s voice faded in, suddenly very loud over the pounding of his chest.

“Slade,” he gasped, “Something’s – something’s wrong with me,” he managed to get out.

Slade’s face was coming in and out of focus, oddly neutral despite the situation. Dick took a step towards his room, needing to get to the bathroom so he could run his face under the faucet and try to clear his head. He managed about a step before he stumbled, falling into the broad expanse of Slade’s chest. When had Slade stood? When had he gotten in front of Dick?

Dick felt his large hands on his shoulders and looked up at Slade’s face.

“It’s ok, just take a deep breath, I got you,” Slade said.

Realization dawned on him as looked into Slade’s too-calm face.

“Slade,” he said voice taking on a warning edge as he pushed away from him, “What did you do. What did you give me?” he said, unable to keep the rising panic out of his voice.

Slade just looked at him, lips pulling into a slight frown. “I’m sorry little bird, it’s just a job. You know how it goes. Someone paid me a lot of money to bring you in, I couldn’t refuse.”

“I – I thought we had an agreement,” Dick said, words slurring together as his tongue got heavy. “I though we’r friends. More’n that.”

Slade stepped forward and caught Dick with a strong arm behind his back as his knees buckled, no loner able to support his weight. “We are. But I couldn’t refuse this contract. I’m sorry, Dick.”

“Liar,” he muttered, trying and failing to push away from Slade. He needed – he needed to get away, or let someone know about his current situation. There was a panic button underneath the kitchen counter, but his legs felt so weak he doubted he could make it all the way there, let alone get away from Slade. His phone was still sitting on the countertop, but he couldn’t reach it and Slade wouldn’t let him get near it without a doubt.

He stumbles as Slade drags him over to the stool next to the island and pushes him down into it, his large hands steadying him and keeping him from falling over.

“Look at me, Grayson.”

Dick slowly raises his eyes to look into Slade’s single one.

“Just take a deep breath and relax. There’s nothing you can do now. Make it easier on all of us and just the drugs do their thing.”

He wants to hit Slade. Punch him and kick and scream and not go down without a fight. But his limbs feel too heavy and are beginning to go numb, his eyes are drooping, and his mouth is full of cotton. He had trusted Slade. Let him into his own home and shared a meal with him. Let all their years of shared history lull him into a sense of security around the man and look where that got him. Slade would do anything if someone offered him enough money, Dick was a fool for ever thinking things were different between them.

“Easy for you to say,” he mumbled, letting his head drop down to his chest. He can feel his heart about to beat out of his chest, his panic the only thing keeping him going. At this point, Slade is right. He just has to hope someone notices he’s missing and Barbara or someone can track him down. He’s not wearing his suit or shoes, so the hope of having trackers on him is out of the question.

He hears Slade huff at his words, but he’s too tired to care and can’t form a coherent thought. Slade’s thumbs are rubbing comforting circles on his shoulders, and all he can think is that it feels nice and he can’t remember for the life of him why he was so mad at Slade. He feels his body go limp and slump into Slade, the only thing keeping him upright are Slade’s hands on his shoulders, and as the world fades out to black he feels Slade’s strong arms wrap around him and haul him to his feet before the drugs pull him under into oblivion.

_________________________________________

Slade sighs as Grayson finally succumbs to the drugs he put in the wine he brought as his ‘peace offering,’ his frantic breathing slowly evening out and his panicked expression becoming more peaceful. He wraps his arms around Dick and hauls him to his feet before tossing him over his shoulder and carrying him over to the couch in the living room of the apartment. He felt bad about doing this to the kid, he really did, but ultimately his reputation and job came before the casual fling he had going on with the hero. Besides, this job could grant him… unique opportunities with the kid. Opportunities he had always wished for, despite his and Grayson’s current – now past he supposed – amicable relationship. The kid would probably never forgive him for this.

Sighing, Slade settles Dick on the couch, rubbing a calloused hand over his face. Looking up, he starts towards the counter to clean up the mess from their dinner, not wanting to leave any traces of his presence behind. He tosses the takeout containers in the trash and dumps the remainder of the wine down the kitchen drain before tossing it in the recycling. He wipes down the countertop and the windowsill, erasing any prints he may have left behind.

Finished with his task, he quickly ducks into Dick’s bedroom and grabs his Nightwing suit and his domino, inspecting it for trackers as he does so. Finding a few, he quickly disables them before balling it up and tucking it under his arm. Walking back to the couch, he looks at Dick’s sleeping form for a second before sighing and hauling him up and over his shoulder once more. Slipping out the window and onto the fire escape, Slade glanced up, taking note of several security cameras in the vicinity he would have to later hack and delete footage off of. Turning and silently closing the window behind him, Slade proceeded down the fire escape to the car waiting below. Nondescript, with no plates, it would be the perfect car for his getaway.

Laying Dick down across the backseat, he buckled him in and walked to the driver side of the car and slid in, starting the engine and taking a quick glance at Dick in the rearview before driving off. If he wanted to make it to the drop location without any incidents, he had to be quick. Grayson had an uncanny ability to get out of some very sticky situations, so it would be easier on everyone if he was unconscious for the remainder of the trip.

And with that, the first part of his job was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry dick :'-)


	3. Chapter 3

Dick slips in and out of consciousness. Vague shapes and voices, but never enough for him to really make out what is happening around him. He thinks he’s on a plane at some point, he can hear the familiar sound of an engine roaring. When his eyes open just a crack, he can see the blurry outline of someone’s face, Slade’s he thinks, looking down at him, and he can hear the low rumble of his voice before there’s a sharp pinch in his neck and everything fades away once more.

Another time, he can feel cold wind on his body and the sound of wheels rolling over pavement. His eyes feel too heavy for him to open, but he gets the distinct feeling that _he’s_ what is being rolled over the pavement. In the distance, he thinks he hears helicopter blades starting up, followed by a sharp gust of wind and the smell of gasoline that confirms his suspicions. Then, nothing.

The third time he wakes, he is a little more coherent. He’s surrounded by darkness, and panic wells in his chest when he realizes there’s something covering his eyes. Shifting, his shoulders strain from where they’re cuffed over his head. The chains are just long enough his bare feet brush the ground, and he has to stand on his toes to relieve the pressure on his shoulders. His wrists feel raw and his shoulders are burning already, and he wonders how long he was hanging here before he came to.

Scrunching up his nose, he can feel a thin band of metal resting snugly over his nose and covering his eyes. _Well shit._ A metal blindfold would be significantly more difficult to get off on his own than a fabric one. He feels the familiar material of woven Kevlar and Nomex against his face when he experimentally rubs his face against his bicep to test the blindfold. _His suit._ Slade must have put it on him, and fear, quickly followed by anger strikes through his gut at the thought of him rifling through his apartment with Dick none the wiser.

Groping along the floor with his toes, (which are thankfully not in cuffs) he can feel the telltale outline of a drain directly below him. He shudders when he thinks of the reasons it might be there for.

Taking a deep breath to calm his pounding heart, he decides that his only option is settle in and wait for his captors to reveal themselves and their intentions before making his grand escape.

By hour three, his anxiety is spiking through the roof. Any typical villain who captures a bat is usually so self-righteous and stuck up their own ass that they can’t help but immediately brag to their poor, helpless charge. There hasn’t been even a peep from his captors, and his lack of vision is causing his anxiety to increase further.

He’s been stewing for the last few hours thinking about Slade, how that asshole came into his home and drugged him and betrayed all their years of trust for a _job._ He can’t help but feel hopeful, that maybe Slade had been blackmailed, and that’s why he had done it. Deep down he knows, though. Slade wouldn’t do anything unless it benefitted him, so there must have been some greater incentive than keeping their relationship on good terms to have taken a job like this. 

He wants to cry. He had _liked_ Slade, despite the differences in their professions. More than as just friends with benefits. He had let Slade past his walls, let him get to know Dick on a more personal level, past the Robin and Nightwing personas. And he had felt Slade was opening up to him as well. Something like this, a betrayal like this, hurt so much more because of the trust he had put in Slade. And still, a treacherous part of his mind still wants to hope that his relationship with Slade isn’t over, that he would still do something that would redeem himself in Dick’s eyes, that they can go back to how things were before all this, while the more rational part of his brain screams and yells at him for being so dumb to ever think he could trust Slade again.

He sighs, trying to put it out of his mind so he’s not frazzled before his captors show themselves.

When hour eight comes around, his legs give out. His shoulders are screaming and he thinks they will probably dislocate if he stays like this for much longer. He can feel his wrists chafing under the cuffs, but his legs are too weak to try and relieve the pressure. His head is pounding with intensity, and his dry mouth certainly isn’t helping.

When the first day (or what he believes to be a day) passes, he understands that this is a torture tactic from his captors, to try and break him and make him easier to control for whatever their future plans for him are. He refuses to give in.

One day and fourteen hours in, he starts to feel blood slowly trickle down his wrists from the chafing of the cuffs. His body is completely limp, and his arms have long since gone numb from the pain. His mouth is dry and parched, and his stomach is aching with hunger. He grits his teeth and refuses to let himself feel desperate for release.

Two days in, his left shoulder dislocates. He screams, his feet scrabbling at the ground to relieve the weight on it. He squeezes his eyes shut behind the blindfold to prevent tears slipping down his face. 

After three days, finally there is movement from his captors. He hears the sound of a heavy door scraping against the floor, but he can’t find the energy to lift his head. Not that he would be able to see, anyway.

There’s the scuff of feet on the floor, and a calloused hand suddenly grabs his chin and lifts it. Something is held to his mouth, and he desperately gulps down to cool liquid that touches his lips. All too soon, the cup is pulled from his lips, and he leans forward to try and get another sip, crying out when he accidentally puts pressure on his dislocated shoulder.

He startles when a voice speaks.

“You should know better than to drink too much at once, little bird,” Slade’s cool voice rumbles in his ear.

Dick freezes.

“Slade?”

He hates how weak his voice sounds, how he still sounds hopeful in Slade’s presence, even though he betrayed Dick.

He hears Slade chuckle.

“Yes, little bird, it’s me.”

The cup is held to his lips again, cutting off anything he was about to say to Slade. He takes a few more sips before it is pulled away, and flinches when a hand caresses his face. A finger brushes his lips, and he hears Slade sigh.

His footsteps recede, and Dick jerks against the cuffs, gritting his teeth when his shoulder protests against the sudden movement.

“Slade! Wait-” He’s cut off by the sound of the door shutting, and lets out a whimper in the deafening silence.

It’s roughly another day before the door opens again. Dick has been drifting in and out of consciousness, the pain from his shoulder and wrists becoming unbearable to the point of him passing out. The hunger in his stomach makes him feel dizzy, and his mouth is still dry despite the water Slade gave him. The sound of the heavy door startles him awake, and he struggles to find purchase on the smooth floor.

The cuffs around his wrists suddenly release, and he cries out with the sudden movement, unable to withhold a scream when he hits the floor directly on his dislocated shoulder. There are hands on him, too many, holding him down despite his struggling. There’s a sickening crunch as his shoulder is popped back into place, and he screams again.

A hand cards through his sweaty hair, and he can faintly smell Slade’s cologne coming from somewhere to his left. A strong hand suddenly grabs him by the back of the neck and drags him to his feet, its bruising grip providing some relief for his weak legs as they threaten to give out under him. He’s pushed forward, stumbling when a wave of dizziness hits him, and he swallows down the nausea and urge to vomit.

The walk is short, but by the time he hears the sound of another door opening – more mechanical, like a high-tech sliding door, not like the sound of the heavy metal door to his cell – he’s shaky and sweating even more. The grip on the back of his neck is still there, and he’s pretty sure it’s Slade’s hand that has been both pushing him forward and holding him up, because an ordinary human hand couldn’t have that same strength behind it.

He’s pushed forward a few more steps, and before he has time to think Slade’s arms are scooping him to hold him bridal style, and he barely makes a small noise of surprise before Slade puts him down on something smooth and hard. He attempts to sit up before a hand is pushing him back down and he hears Slade’s smooth voice say “Stay down, kid.”

There’s the noise of people bustling around him, and he starts to struggle when hands are on either side of him, holding down his arms as heavy metal restraints are snapped over his wrists. Slade’s hand is replaced by another restraint over his chest, and more hands hold down his legs for more heavy metal to lock in place over his ankles.

The metal is cold, and he grits his teeth to prevent himself from making a noise as they burn his already raw and bleeding wrists. He forces himself to swallow his panic and breathe slowly in an attempt to calm his nerves. The movement around him intensifies, hushed whispers just on the edge of his hearing so he can’t quite make them out making him shift and strain against the restraints in desperation.

He finches at cool metal touching his wrist just above the cuff, and struggles in vain when the blade slides up the sleeve of his suit, slicing the tough fabric with ease. An IV is inserted in the crook of his elbow when the blade pulls away, and a pulse oximeter is attached to his pointer finger of the same arm.

More voices approach, and he catches words such as “Tube” and “Test One” and “Begin insertion” before his jaw is harshly grabbed and forced open. Before he has time to react, a feeding tube is forced past his lips, and he gags as it’s forced down his esophagus and into his stomach. Tears prick at his eyes, but he stubbornly refuses to let them fall, to let his captors see him more vulnerable than he already is.

His head is tipped back slightly, a hand at his chin keeping him from moving it back down. Someone else shifts the tube in his stomach, and he gags again. Before he has time to recover, be can feel the weight of liquid sliding down the tube and filling is stomach. The liquid is coming in too fast, too much at once and he can feel his neglected stomach protesting and straining and then his body is on fire, starting from his stomach and spreading outwards to his fingertips. He lets out a garbled scream around the feeding tube, his back arching off the table and fingers curling and scratching against the unforgiving metal. It is one of the most intense feelings he’s ever experienced, and he can feel his consciousness slipping in the face of the excruciating pain. Before he slips into unconsciousness, he feels the liquid bubble up his throat and panics, coughing and choking before the darkness closes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me, writing two new fics that I intend on being 50k+ and forgetting about the one I already started for a month and a half* well shit


	4. Chapter 4

Tim Drake is pissed off. Dick had come to him with a case he had been working on for a few weeks, asking him to help locate base of origin and outreach of a trafficking ring that had been encroaching on Dick’s territory in Bludhaven by using Tim’s extensive information network and hacking skills. 

According to the case files Dick had passed on to Tim, he had been on one of his usual patrol routes when he intercepted a shipment at the docks. None of the usual players had been involved, which had immediately raised red flags. The goons guarding the shipment had not been your usual sub-par trigger happy thugs as well. They were trained, albeit not spectacularly, but enough that the ten or so guards had posed some difficulty during the initial takedown. They were also outfitted with non-standard tactical gear, not something your average rent-a-thug was blessed to have during a shady operation. Between the surprising capability in hand-to-hand combat and their gear, Dick had already been on alert before examining the cargo they were transporting.

The cargo was sickening, to say the least.

Upon breaking into the boat on the docks, Dick had immediately known something was amiss. The entry level was too sterile, clean white walls and floors with what appeared to be medical stations equipped with nasty looking tech and mysterious substances. The pictures Dick had included in the file, taken from his mask, showed that the various substances were labeled with numbers, the different colored liquids at each station having multiple variations it seemed, such as 001.5, 002, and the most common being 004.

On the bottom level of the ship, there were cells. In Dick’s notes he said this level was noticeably dirtier, and reeked on human waste. While Tim couldn’t smell the ship (and was glad he couldn’t) from the video feed he’d been sent, he could see the difference between this level and the entry level with clear distinction.

There were eight cells, roughly six feet by four feet, barely able to contain what was inside them. Two of the cells were empty, but the other six contained people, drugged to the gills and clearly out of it. They were all thin, with heavy bruising around their wrists and ankles. Upon closer inspection, each had a thin tattooed number on their wrist. In total, there were four women and two men, with three of the women in noticeably better condition. Not as thin, less bruising around the wrists and ankles, no scars visible over the edges of the thin hospital gowns they wore.

Dick had set upon evacuating the people as he called the BPD, and once they were situated on the docs with the police on their way, he had gone back inside to get more information.

There was a small administrative office just off the medical bay, and inside were thick files with corresponding numbers on the covers to the tattoos on the wrists of the people who had been kept in the bowel of the ship. Along with the files, there was a slim laptop, but when Dick had tried to hack into it onsite, he had triggered an alarm that set the computer to self-destruct and triggered a bomb in the hull of the ship to blow within twenty seconds of the computer’s self-destruct sequence, effectively sinking and erasing any possible clues the ship could contain.

Dick had barely made it off the boat with the files before he was blown to bits and buried beneath the waters of the Bludhaven harbor. The video feed Tim has abruptly cuts of in a flash of bright light and the shrill scream of metal tearing as the ship sinks beneath the water. Tim can hear the sound of Dick cursing vehemently as he hits the docks against the explosion. 

While Tim wishes he had samples of the liquids in the med bay on the ship, he’s glad for the files Dick had nabbed before it had gone down in flames.

The files had been a new sort of nauseating, for the both of them. Each one contained extensive toxicology reports, medical history, notes scrawled in the margins of how certain patients reacted to stimuli differently, etc.

From what Dick had concluded was that the six people in the cells below deck were… experiments of some sort. The notes of how they reacted to stimuli are pretty telling for the three Dick had found in better condition. Those three were apparently for pleasure purposes, and it disgusted Tim to no end. It explained why they were in better condition, but the notes Dick had managed to collect provided no other clues as to what the other three people were conditioned for. Tim is starting to think they had more… clandestine purposes that had been hidden on the laptop before its destruction. 

Four days after the initial investigation, there were four bodies found in a warehouse a half mile away from the dock where the boat was discovered. Both Dick and Tim believe they were the caretakers of the prisoners on the ship, and had been off it discussing final placement of the prisoners when it had blown, and thus made a hasty retreat before Nightwing or their employers caught up to them. Unfortunately, there is no physical evidence of their involvement that isn’t at the bottom of the harbor and completely compromised or blown to bits.

One day after that, four of the guards taken into custody commit suicide in their cells, while the other six are murdered in an intense prison riot, but there is only one other prisoner casualty outside of the six guards.

The six people found in the belly of the ship are being held in protective custody, and when an officer attempts to interrogate one of the men, he is killed by him, in an impressive display of strength and agility. The man lunges across the table separating them, and breaks the officer’s neck with such intense strength his head is nearly ripped clean off his shoulders. The man is completely unresponsive to any other attempts to talk.

Ten days after the murder of the officer, the FBI takes over the case and moves the six people into FBI sanctioned custody, off the grid for protection purposes. Dick fails to get an interview with any of them before this happens. Police reports say that the people were completely unresponsive to any attempts to converse with officers except the one who had killed his interviewer two minutes into the interview.

Twelve days after the initial investigation, the people disappear. Completely. Dick had been keeping tabs on them even in their new custody, but he can’t find a single trace of them after two days.

Eight days after that, Dick gets word through his information network that there has been a new presence in New York encroaching on the mafia’s control of the docks, shipping in heavily guarded goods only a select few have been lucky enough to see in person. But the connection is clear, in the past two months, there has been four shipments of thirteen people, and Dick’s informant within the mafia says they don’t seem like ordinary trafficking victims either.

Six days after the second lead, Dick pays Tim a visit, handing over a flash drive with all his notes on the case and copies of the files taken from the first ship, and asks him to tap into his expansive intelligence network.

Tim begrudgingly agrees, and begins his search. What he uncovers is something bigger than what both of them could have possibly expects.

He’s following up on a lead after a brief interlude with the Titans in San Francisco when he comes across it. Shipping manifests from a local company in San Francisco of a “product” dating back a few years and continuing up until a few months ago. The company operates just off of Hunter’s Point, a slightly more secluded area of the shipping industry in San Francisco. The company has ties to the local Russian mafia, which is initially what sets off alarms for Tim.

There’s very little information on what the actual product is, just a few lines about “specialized and customizable machinery for recreational or professional usage.” A few broken bones in the shipyard later, a grunt frantically tells him the company has been shipping in _humans._ He’s not sure where they go after leaving the shipyard, just that there’s always intense security and quite a few greased palms after every shipment. Tim’s not too mad about that, tracking the product shouldn’t be too difficult.

Two days later, the grunt he interrogated shows up bloated and very, very dead on the opposite side of the city, startling the crew of an ocean liner docked at Pier 33.

He relays the information to Dick, who says that he’s knocked a few heads in New York and gotten very little but is onto something promising and that he’ll get in touch a in a few days on what he finds.

Tim immediately sets upon tracking the whereabouts of the latest people moved out of Hunter’s Point, but is only successful in tracking down three of the original eight. As he suspected with the people in the first investigation, he thinks the company shipping out the people in the first place is providing careful cover for the ‘product’ with a more clandestine appearance. The one he decides to visit in person is a small-time millionaire living in Portland, Oregon.

His name is Frederic Meyer, and he runs a small-time import company, which is how Tim supposes he was able to get the connections for the ‘product’. After a few days of surveillance, Tim discovers he’s been importing drugs for the Albanian mafia for the past few years, but nothing more than that. He’s not super deep in the mafia as well, mostly just an outside provider who reaps the benefits of organized crime, thus explaining his millionaire status.

Tim’s unexpected drop in makes Meyer nearly piss himself, and clearly the years of working with the mafia have done nothing to harden him up. He frantically spills that he had been contacted through his company by SF Crating and Shipping, the company in charge of the trafficking coming out of Hunter’s Point, after he had expressed interest in working together in the drug trade, not realizing that drugs was only a small time operation for them. They had asked him if he had wanted to ‘try the goods’ beforehand for a small fee, and he had agreed.

A woman by the name of Carol Heric had arrived at his penthouse a few days later, and asked him what he was looking for after explaining what they _actually_ dealt in, and of course, being the low-life scum he was, Meyer had spared no detail. The woman had left soon after, saying the product would be ready in a month and to send his payment through SF Crating and Shipping.

Which brings them to eight days ago, with Red Robin standing over one bruised Frederic Meyer as he desperately tells him where the woman he bought is being kept in his penthouse.

After Tim makes sure she’s ok, he calls for the Titans to come pick them up, determined to not let this lead slip through his fingers, and calls the cops on Meyer, leaving behind an envelope of all his criminal history.

Later that night, as the victim is resting in a containment cell in the Tower, he hacks the camera feed of Meyer’s penthouse and gets a lucky shot of Carol Heric as she leaves the building. He quickly sends the name and photo to Dick, who thanks him and says he’s following a similar lead.

An interview the next day with the victim is both very eye-opening and confusing. Tim leaves with more questions than when he went in.

The victim is completely unresponsive until Tim says something, he’s still sure what exactly it was, when suddenly she gets up and sits on his lap, slowly grinding on him and murmuring sweet nothings to him, her face showing the most emotion he’s seen since he saw her in Meyer’s special little room. Tim sputters and pushes her off, where she lands on her knees and instantly reaches for his belt buckle. He makes a hasty exit from the containment cell, and watches from the security camera as she returns to her nearly catatonic state.

Blood samples show a compound in her blood that is unrecognizable, and facial recognition software brings up a missing persons report from eight months ago matching her description.

Tim has a theory: the company orchestrating this abducts people who won’t really be missed, and then conditions them to buyer preferences. The idea is nauseating, and he hopes he’s wrong, but it would explain the stimuli reactions written in the files from the boat, the man killing the cop during his interrogation, and the most recent woman’s behavior.

He asks the Titans to keep an eye on the woman and update him if anything changes, and makes a hasty retreat to Gotham so he can meet up with Dick and discuss his theory.

He sets up in one of his more public safehouses in Gotham, and shoots a text to Dick about wanting to meet and that he has information that can’t be discussed over the phone.

A day later, he sends Dick another short text, not wanting to bother him too much in case he’s in deep somewhere, when he doesn’t respond.

Two days later, he sends a slightly irritated text to Dick, telling him that if he can’t meet right then, then he needs to say something, or Tim might bust into whatever operation he’s running.

Which brings them to today, after a series of missed calls and increasingly annoyed texts, a very pissed off Tim Drake is angrily parking his Ducati on the curb outside Dick’s Bludhaven apartment before marching up the stairs to his third floor penthouse and pounding on the door.

“Dick!” he yells, pounding again when he gets no response. “C’mon man, we need to talk!”

He waits a few minutes, and when there’s still no answer, he marches up the rest of the stairs to the roof and climbs down the fire escape and wrenches open the window to the living room.

As soon as he sets foot in the apartment, something seems off. It’s too still, like there’s been no one inside it for a few days at least.

Dick’s phone is on the counter, and when he picks it up, he sees that all of the texts and calls he tried to get through are still displayed on the screen. Unease strikes through his gut. Dick had never seen the messages that he was back in Gotham.

Walking carefully around the apartment, phone still in hand, Tim examines everything around him.

There’s old and moldy Chinese food in the trash, and yeah, he knew Dick was a slob, but this seems a little extreme. A load of laundry is still sitting in the washer, stinking of mildew. Dick’s sneakers are still sitting in a pile by the front door. It’s this observation that leads to the next.

Dick’s Nightwing suit is gone.

And so are his case files.

Everything he had collected outside of what he had shared with Tim, is gone.

His laptop, the files from the boat, everything. Gone.

Quickly pulling his laptop out of his bag, Tim checks the security cameras for anything, but there’s nothing. It shows Dick entering the apartment five days ago and never leaving.

The unease in his gut is now all over, and he knows without doubt.

Something is very, very, wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dunnnnnn......
> 
> as an apology for forgetting to post ch 3 for ages here's the next one a bit early


	5. Chapter 5

Dick vomits black ink for hours after he wakes up in his cell.

His throat is raw from the tube he thinks was shoved down it, but his brain is fuzzy and slow and he can’t quite remember what happened before he ended here. He’s not sure what had been forced down his throat, but it makes his body burn with intensity.

Looking around him with bleary eyes, he takes in the surrounding cell. It’s a plain concrete box, the only things adorning the cell are the bloody cuffs hanging from the ceiling and the rusty drain directly below them. One of the four walls has what he assumes is a double sided mirror set into it. He’s sure that whoever is keeping him here is observing from the other side.

He wants to get up and inspect the blood on the cuffs dangling from the ceiling, but his legs are weak and shaky, and any attempt to stand is quickly shut down.

Groaning, he lifts his head off the cool concrete as another wave of nausea comes over him and leans to the side where there is already a puddle of black vomit. This time, there is more blood than black in his vomit, and he desperately hopes his body is done expelling whatever was put into it. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to withstand another round.

He lies on the floor for another few hours, thankfully keeping whatever bile and blood still left in his stomach down in that time. By the time the heavy door scrapes open, he’s feeling less nauseous and shaky, but his body still aches, and his head feels muddled.

The figure that comes through the door is a welcome sight, and he feels his body relax with relief.

“ _Slade,_ ” the name falls from his lips as a breathless whisper. “You came for me.”

Slade’s face is impassive, and he remains silent as he stands next to the door as several other people file into the room.

“Slade?” he says again, the silent question hovering in the air.

One of the other people in the room approaches him, a short and round man in a lab coat with a pair of glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. He gestures behind him, and Slade approaches as well, grabbing Dick’s shoulder in a firm grip and sitting him upright so he’s no longer curled in a ball on the floor.

The man kneels in front of Dick, shooting a distasteful look at the puddle of vomit next to him, before pulling out a penlight and shining it in his eyes. He squints, flinching away from the light, but is stopped by Slade’s hand on his shoulder.

“Slade? W-what’s going on? Where are we?” He asks, starting to feel a bit panicked because there is something very, very wrong right now but he can’t put his finger on what exactly.

Slade continues to stay silent, but the man in front of him stands and turns to the other two men standing in the doorway.

“Subject’s reaction time is slow and he seems to be very confused. We should do more tests before we proceed,” he says.

The taller of the two in the door nods, and gestures to Slade. “Deathstroke, if you’ll escort him to the lab.”

Slade nods, bending down to grip Dick by the arm, hauling him to his unsteady feet. Dick feels the nausea welling up in his stomach, and takes a deep breath in an attempt to force it down.

The taller man continues to talk, turning to the third man, “Contact someone about decontaminating this room,” he says, gesturing to the vomit on the floor with a distasteful wrinkle of his nose.

“Right away sir,” is the response, and he quickly scurries away to deal with his task.

The taller man looks at Dick with a calculating look in his eyes, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. The round man hurries after him, and Slade follow at a much slower pace as he practically carries Dick.

They wind through a few short hallways before approaching a sleek metal door. It opens with a hiss, the two lab coats stepping over the threshold first before Slade pushes Dick forward.

When Dick sees the interior of the room, he balks.

The room is startlingly sterile, with blinding white walls and clean white tile. There’s a metal chair in the center of the room, of the sort you might see in a dentist’s office but with heavy looking metal restraints at various intervals. The chair is surrounded by beeping machines, and there are three more lab coats in the room, crowded around one of the machines.

Dick, who had been silent on the walk here, can’t help his outburst at the sight.

“What the fuck. What is this?” he says, attempting to take a step back.

Slade’s grip on his arm tightens, and he makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat.

“C’mon kid, don’t put up a fight.”

“ _Slade_ , what the hell is all this?!” He’s aware that his voice is rising, and all the lab coats are staring at him now, but he can’t force himself to care, he wants out, right now, and that’s all he can think about.

“Deathstroke.” The tall man says. “Bring him over here. Now.”

Slade sighs, and grabs Dick under both arms and practically drags him over to the chair. Dick is squirming and cursing the whole way, but Slade doesn’t let up, forcing him into the chair. Immediately, the lab coats descend on him, quickly cuffing his wrists, ankles and chest to the chair. No amount of thrashing stops them, and it’s only when they’re finished does he stop moving, breathing heavy from the exertion.

“Deathstroke, if you could wait by the door until he’s ready to return to his cell.”

Slade nods, and steps back until he’s out of Dick’s line of sight.

“Sir, the subject’s panic and activity level could be disruptive during the procedure, I recommend we sedate him for it,” one of the lab coats says, a woman this time.

The tall man seems to think it over briefly, before saying “Take your initial blood tests, then sedate him with a small dose. Too much and it could interfere just as much.”

“Yes sir,” she says turning away and typing something on a tablet in her hand.

Dick looks after her with wide eyes, his breath coming in short gasps.

“Sedate me?! What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are you?!” Dick says, twisting against the restraints.

No one even spares him a glance. Dick flinches at the cold touch of antiseptic on his arm, and looks just as a needle enters the vein on the crook of his elbow, past the tattered sleeve of his uniform. He tries to twist away as the chamber of the needle fills slowly with his blood, but the lab coat’s hand remains steady and he’s helpless to prevent it from happening.

As soon as they’re done, another one fills his place, wiping down his shoulder with another antiseptic wipe. They’re holding a small needle filled with a clear liquid, and Dick’s heart drops to his stomach when he realizes what it is.

The lab coat is quick to insert the needle in his shoulder, despite his protests, and it isn’t long before he feels the drug start to take effect. His body slowly starts to relax, his eyelids drooping, and the background noise fades away to be replaced with muffled sounds and vague impressions. His head is filled with a pleasant cotton, and he can’t bring himself to care about his surroundings, even when he feels the cold touch of scissors on his chest and hears the quiet _snik snik_ of his uniform being cut off his body.

The air is cold on his body, and he involuntarily starts to shiver as cold hands touch his stomach. Fingers probe at his mouth and he obediently opens it, unbothered by the taste of latex and the scratch of something on the inside of his cheek.

Someone is speaking, and it takes all the energy left in his body to focus on the words.

“…doesn’t remember past week… reduced effect… reaction to serum was…”

“… didn’t have the desired reaction… induced the vomiting… DNA sample and bloodwork show…”

“We’ll have to… serum for test two… ready now.”

“…do you… now?”

Dick knows this is important, what the people around him are talking about, but that level of caring is honestly beyond him right now, and he doesn’t even flinch when he feels more cold antiseptic wipe down the crook of the opposite arm he got his blood drawn from.

He turns his head towards the arm, watching with disinterest as gloved hands insert a thick needle into the skin. Another hand turns his head to the side and inserts another thick needle into the artery on his neck, and his head lolls to the side, his muscles too loose from the sedative to have proper control over is body.

Suddenly, there is an intense pain from both injection sites. It feels as if his body is on fire, slowly spreading throughout his body. It’s enough to drag him from the weight of the drug, a rush of adrenaline snapping him awake, and he becomes aware he is screaming in pain.

The pain is too much for his body to handle, and he feels himself slip into the depths of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not my best chapter :/ which is why its so late. I decided to just go ahead and post it instead of keeping on revising it 800 times. When starting this fic, I had a beginning and an end in mind, and now were at the part where i try to connect the two and still make sense
> 
> Also thinking about doing Whumptober, even tho were already a few days in :} 
> 
> if enough people come yell at me on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/jasontiddie) maybe ill write a few things for it lol


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